Letters From Turkey: Denver > London > Izmir > Ercan > Istanbul

Okay here I go, here it begins.

 

Breathe. 

 

Today marks exactly one week since I have been in Turkey… and approximately eleven more to go. I am not dreading it and it has been less lonely.  I can still text my friends, I am still tuned into the viral world with my facebook, and I still read the news in my hometown.  So maybe in that sense, I’m not really traveling, but at least in the beginning, the luxury of familiarity gives me more courage to fearlessly pop out of the flat armed with one Turkish lira to buy “ekmek” when I have no fucking clue clue where I am going.   

 

When I arrived, I had not yet woken from my hellish venture from London to Izmir to Ercan to Istanbul; that was easily the worst 40 hours of my life (or at least seemingly challenging capitulated in the context of the cold unknown).  And now perhaps, as things have calmed, long multi-syllabic words are looking familiar, and I’m making sense of East and West, I’m assembling some sense of routine.    

 

Maybe just maybe.

 

But first, I at least have to tell how I got here.  

 

I didn’t leave Colorado feeling defiant, I know that.  Two years ago, I would have left with a

metaphorical middle finger in everyone’s face.  But after a couple years of finally being honest and being okay with that, even if it didn’t agree with “everyone else”’s dogma, I can accept my inadequacies and see it more clearly.   I’m okay with not liking everyone I meet and daintily smiling and nodding at every. Single. Stupid. Word.  I’m okay with not being the demure young woman every man would feel affirmed to put a ring on. I’m okay with being okay with it. 

 

Instead, I accept feeling completely unprepared and freaked out.  I accept that this idea is most likely not going to propel my career or love life.  I accept that I’m not going to do yoga every morning and come back all Eat. Pray. Love.  Can I claim that feeling this way must inevitably mean that I’m actually more prepared than “everyone else”?  Secretly, I want it to, but honestly, those who dazedly accept every Single. Stupid. Word, might just muster more courage (albeit superficial) than I in this situation and that’s what I think makes life unfair.   

 

I arrived in Istanbul at 8:30 pm from frankly, the worst travel experience of my life, and as I approach the immigration line for “all other passports,” I assure myself that unlike most, I did think this step through.

 

“Did you buy a visa for Turkey?”

 

“No.  I’m just going to buy one there.  I don’t think you can buy one before.”

 

“You can and you should have.”  My dad says with his unfathomable travel experience.  This humbling instruction comes via phone on the road back from Oxford with my Uncle Martin.  In so many ways I still a little girl, but I guess we all are. 

 

At that moment, I had rather dwell on my romantic day before in London or maybe emailing York for work in a teahouse, moments I had thought about for so many months before and ended up being just as incredible as I imagined.  Moments like that, however, only last as long as your grandparents warn you and one must pause in-between to map out the practical things, like travel visas.    

 

So in the immigration line, envious of the blonde-hair blue-eyed German couple in front of me who have someone to traverse a whole new world with, I slowly inch closer.

 

I approach the desk, not elated because remember I’m still freaked out and just spent an unnecessary amount of time and money in sketchy Cyprus.  And I know this guy is going to ask if I have a visa.  But you see, I am likewise explaining to him, I didn’t print it off.  I pull up the confirmation email on my phone and thank God it is enough.

 

Four hours earlier, I ripped off a taxi driver in Cyprus.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

I can really only tell a few people why exactly I ended up in Nicosia for 22 hours and why I went Izmir > Ercan and then Ercan > Istanbul I will never really make sense of.  Either way, my arrival to Ercan was much less than exhilarating.  I landed at 10:05 p.m..  At 11:30, I cried in the bathroom.

 

Maybe a part of me planned three months in Istanbul for an excuse to spend a week in England.  That part of me was the little girl crying in the bathroom.  At least I had my books with me.  I had my notebook.  I had my phone.  And I had about 20 more goddamned hours to go in that tiny lobby.

 

But this is what being a nomad means, right?  So in Fergie fashion, I put on my big-girl pants.  I accept my choice and wash it down like a big pill with a deep breath.  (When I’m older and have a garden where I plant tulip bulbs, I’ll reminisce and tell my children, if I ever tell this story, Ercan probably symbolized my full departure).

 

The café, adjacent to the bathroom, at least offered some shelter from the cold unknown.  And at airports, no one really cares if you are breaking social norms like not ordering anything, wearing pajamas, sleeping, drinking.  A man, in kind gestures, offers an outlet at his table for me to charge my phone.  Even though I’m already charging my phone at my own outlet, I accept this invitation as a polite expression to a weary lonesome traveler.  And over broken English, Hussein, who is balding at the back of his head like other Turks in the café, explains to me the difference between Greek-side Cyprus and Turkey-side Cyprus.

 

Something about a war or fighting.  Something about having two identification cards.  Something about having two different last names and so it’s hard for him to travel.  Something about beer or “bira.”  Something about gambling.

 

I did, however, understand the part where he gestures that he knows the owner of the café, who had sent over to us some Turkish tea.  As the waitress places it down, at least she has a trustworthy smile and I relax a little.

 

Then something about how he can take me to a hotel since I will be here for so long and would be uncomfortable sleeping.  He drives a taxi so he can take me. 

 

“Okay” I say.  At least I can count on that word being translatable.  Maybe I can discover Cyprus a little

before my flight.  After all, this is where my cousin Steve came to party for multiple summers when he was younger.  Maybe I’ll find my own blond-hair blue-eyed companion.

 

Tired, I nod and smile as taxi driver motions to hills out the window.  Something about a flag.  Something about petrol.  Whatever.  He offers me "bira" at the petrol station.  Whatever, I guess he's being nice but gawd am I tired.  

 

The next hour I felt myself walking into a 20/20 episode. 

 

Perhaps the idea was lost in translation but I did NOT want to tour Cyprus at 1:00 in the morning.   I did NOT feel comfortable leaving my stuff in the car. I did NOT want to walk up and down the streets noting that Greek side had a McDonald’s and Turkey side didn’t. I did NOT like feeling powerless not knowing the language as taxi driver speaks to creepy restaurant workers.

 

“Friends” he says and tilts his head in their direction.

 

 That reminds me... “Make sure I text you in 30 mins...  On Alert” I text my sister.

 

I am relieved as we make our way back; I mentally facepalm.  What the hell, Robyn.  You are supposed to be aware and have enough common sense in your pocket to at least get you to Turkey.  You are supposed to be the cool one who was adventurous and figured things out.  You're a rebel.  You're experienced.  You're Pepper Anne.  Things like this don't happen to you.   I don’t give a shit about blonde-hair or blue-eyes at this point, any other companion would have been nice for backup at this point.  I am hugging my bag close and I am intentionally obvious with my calculating body-language. 

 

NO I do NOT want to see where people play cards now.  I am tired.  Can I go to hotel now?  “Okay.”

He offers for me to stay at his place.  He assures me it’s okay because he doesn’t have a family. 

 

Fuck.

 

Fuckity fuck.

 

“No.  Hotel now.”

 

I pull out my phone and text my best friends the same message.  The rest of the ride is silent but it’s not an awkward silence because awkward silences suggest an air of acquaintanceship and this man was forever a stranger to me. 

 

I frantically shake Hussein’s hand at the check-in desk as he offers to take me to the airport the next day.  Thank God there is another human being here who has informed me of breakfast and check-out time, in English. 

 

“Okay, 7:00. See you then, thanks.”  I wince.  But after all, I really didn't want to cheat him out of his money. I'm nice like that.  I deserve a gold star.  

 

I collapse on the bed and I am thankful.  I could care less that the 120 Turkish Lira didn’t guarantee me a rust-free shower or hot water or a coffee maker.  All I cared about at that moment was being far away from the taxi driver and away from any semblance of a suspicious situation. 

 

I skip the free breakfast.  I decide I would rather sleep and be alone with my English thoughts.  Though I’ve got a while of adventure ahead of me, right now I would rather be comfortable in my own

pale skin. . . alone. 

 

But earlier, I get a call from the old phone afforded to me for the night.  The time is about 7:00 and I am still asleep.  As soon as it rings, it’s like I had already been awake and was expecting a

call.  I defiantly answer in English.  Maybe if I talk loud and fast enough, they will leave me alone for five more hours. 

 

“Hello?  You have a taxi here waiting for you.”

 

“No my flight is later.  My flight is at 7 P.M.”

 

“Yes, 7:00?”

 

I’m running through my head if I could have possibly overslept and made it to 7:00 p.m. There is no way I could fuck things up that bad. 

 

“NO, 7 P.M.  In

12 hours.  At night.  7 at NIGHT.”

 

“Oh in NIGHT!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay” and I hear him say something in Turkish to someone that could have only been the taxi driver.  At this moment I thankful that Hussein’s English is indeed broken because I am not coming downstairs.  But he will arrive 12 hours later.  I guess I will be gone by then.

 

I’m sorry.  I’ve never not paid before.  Although I can say I’ve been cheated many times by taxi drivers, I understand that it kind of happens to everyone.  I appreciate if driving me around was a genuine and honest gesture of introducing me to the island.  I’m sure it is lovely... when you want to be there and I didn't mean to shit on it so bad.  And it really sucks that we couldn’t communicate as probably both of us wanted.  Because of that, things got weird real fast for me.  You have weird pinky fingernails and you could very well have put something in my drink.  Maybe you’ve done this before and are an altruistic welcoming person.  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so careless.  Either way, it was liberating to ditch you, to be honest.  And I don't me that in the teenagery angsty way.  I wish that there were no

language barriers to prevent me expressing that to you but since I didn’t really have that option, I bounced out and I don’t really feel bad about it. 

 

So weary and relieved, I am happy that the email confirmation for my visa is enough to get me through to Istanbul… Soon I will meet my hosts and drink salep and eat lots of kebabs and baklava and I can

forget about the taxi driver.  We will laugh about it and I'll be assured to visit Cyprus again.  The next time I do will be on my own terms.

 

The German couple disappears.  i guess they weren't on my flight.  They walk off confidently, ready for Istanbul, ready to face it together.  I am happy for them.  

 

I scan the screens for baggage claim.  PC 519 Carousel 1. 

 

Okay here I go, here it begins. 

 

Breathe.

 

I had entered the immigration lines in due time, but no oneelse from my flight seemed to be around…

I meander for a good couple minutes…

 

… Carousel 1 has a couple bags still on its belt.  I wait for my Hi-Tec backpack…

 

I scan the pile of unclaimed bags in the corner of the baggage claim lobby…

…

no bag…

 

Okay ... here it begins...

 

Breathe.